


Three Words

by Arke



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Destroy Ending, Introspection, M/M, Series Chronology, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 10:03:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7098280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arke/pseuds/Arke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Kaidan had ever wanted to say to the commander were three words.  Three short, simple words that would have told him everything he had ever needed to know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Words

Kaidan knew better than to think that love on the battlefield was real.  It was certainly a nice notion, but it was best left for the young adult literature that romanticized such things, in which words so easily simplified the opposing pulls of duty and heart.  Reality was much less sympathetic to the idealistic mind.

Nothing about Kaidan’s latest posting had been ideal.  The _Normandy’s_ shakedown cruise to Eden Prime was a bust, leaving the commander with anomalous visions and a new enemy.  Therum was teeming with geth, and the ground team barely managed to escape the mines with Dr. Liara T’Soni, let alone their own lives, intact.  The mission on Noveria resulted in the death of an indoctrinated asari matriarch – Liara’s mother, at that.  Feros was yet another reminder that the galaxy was crawling with unknowns and that it was impossible to save everyone from them; to think otherwise was nearly childish in its stretch for hope.  Most days, Kaidan tinkered with the console outside the commander’s cabin and mulled over every mission, his hands idly working while his mind raced ahead without them.

At least Shepard was there to reel him back in, he thought.  The commander seemed to enjoy patrolling the ship, discussing matters with the crew and coming to know them as both a colleague and friend.  Kaidan thought it odd that Shepard wanted to talk as much as he did.  Early on, he dismissed it as convenience – after all, he did spend most of his off hours in the mess or near the commander’s cabin, neither of which was a particularly private space – but embedded in all the inquiries about his opinion on different missions and on the status of the crew were more personal questions.  Shepard asked about Kaidan’s service record, biotic abilities, training, and any number of subjects that Kaidan had buried in the past.

But Shepard did not dredge up the past to force conversation.  He genuinely wanted to know what sort of man he had at his back.  It was his nature.

Over the course of their tour on the _Normandy_ , Shepard convinced Kaidan to speak his mind.  The lieutenant opened up slowly and carefully, like one would an old book with yellowed, torn pages, and eventually his words flowed easily.  Words were great storytellers, recalling events past and intermixing with others’ input in the present to create new perspectives.  It was freeing, in a sense, to know that he could discuss anything he wanted with Shepard, and that Shepard would not judge him for what he may have said or done in the past.  It was equally fulfilling to know that Shepard cared and that Kaidan cared in return.

Then they were deployed to Virmire.  They returned from the ground mission one crewmember short.  Shepard tried repeatedly to ensure that Kaidan knew neither he nor Kaidan were at fault for Ash’s death.  As a leader, it was a difficult situation, but he committed to his decision and followed through with it, as any pragmatic commanding officer should have done; as a human being, it was an impossible choice, but he followed his instinct, as any flawed man should have done.  But Kaidan was reluctant to believe Shepard’s argument.  Words were suddenly the worst kind of storytellers: the kind that composed fiction and half-truths.

The guilt that accompanied that line of thought went unexplained, however.  He trusted Shepard to make the right decisions.  He trusted Shepard as his commander and friend.  He trusted Shepard enough to speak freely in his presence and to expect the same confidence in return.  He trusted Shepard more than he had ever trusted anything else in his life – but why?

Kaidan was fully cognizant of the fact that he overthought most matters at hand.  Just as Shepard’s mind was naturally inquisitive, Kaidan’s was naturally contemplative, preferring to stay entrenched within itself in most circumstances.  He often silently pondered over missions and decisions and time, all culminating in nothing but fruitless worries.  Every word Shepard said opened his mind a little further, daring him to venture beyond his own comfort and follow his heart – even if only once in his life.

So Kaidan heeded all the signs: his immense respect for Shepard’s strength as both a teammate on the field and as a friend, the lilt in his own voice as he and Shepard conversed, the unspoken truths that never breached the surface of his words.  Maybe he imagined it, or maybe it was some sort of illusion, but he seized it for what it was, and when he finally recognized the disturbingly subtle twinge in the pit of his stomach whenever Shepard made his way toward him, he knew it was bound to evolve into a throbbing ache.

He did not plan his words – his first mistake – and only determined that he should avoid that _love_ word at all costs.  He was uncertain of it himself; it was best to let it brew for a while before jumping to that conclusion, particularly while he still had some time.  He did not practice his words, either – his second mistake – and decided that these were words best said in an uninterrupted stream from the heart.  It was a contingency plan of sorts, a tiny bit of controlled chaos that he could classify as stress when the rejection came around.

It went against a dozen regulations, perhaps more, but he asked to speak to Shepard in his cabin and then told him everything regardless.  The confession was an awkward mess.  He did not outright state those three words, nor did he preface his admission with a cautious _I think_ , but the intent was clear, and the emotion behind them was full of the conviction that should have been expected from a trusted officer.  

The only response he received was silent hesitation.  Shepard’s eyes darted back and forth between his, probing for something: perhaps truth in his words, or maybe some hint of deceit, as though what he had said was some sort of cruel joke.  But ultimately Shepard’s search came up empty, and he swallowed hard, placing a steadying hand on Kaidan’s shoulder, tacitly ensuring that the lieutenant knew that it was okay.  He opened his mouth to speak, only to stutter a few times and finally sigh in surrender.  The simultaneous twitch of a few nervous fingers against his shoulder made Kaidan’s heart skip a beat.

Shepard removed his hand and rubbed the back of his neck, finally rendered speechless, not by some impossible mission or daunting political game, but by a concept that was both deceptively simple and inherently complex.  He took a step forward, his calm features again suggesting that it was okay.  Everything Kaidan said was okay.  Everything Kaidan felt was okay.

And then everything clicked into place, and Kaidan knew that there was no longer any need to leave himself a way out.

He took a single step forward, ignoring the pang of feeling like he had intruded upon Shepard’s personal space, and waited, the embarrassed flush on his cheeks finally reaching his ears.  Shepard looked him in the eye, but his gaze was unfocused, as though he could not determine what he should expect to see there, and Kaidan put a bracing hand on Shepard’s shoulder, miming the same comforting gesture that he had received in his own moment of uncertainty.  Even if there were no words to say, this moment was perfect in its clumsiness.

Who made the next cautious move forward was impossible to tell.  All Kaidan knew for certain was that one moment he was confessing to some baffling feeling like a gushing teenager and the next there was a hesitant kiss pressed to his lips – slow, soft, and inquiring, curious about what promises lay buried beneath.  But the feel of Shepard’s lips against his own faded just as slowly, and he opened his eyes to witness the commander shift, one foot pointed halfway to the side in an aborted step back.

Kaidan’s heart thrummed against his chest.  A hundred different prayers raced through his mind, willingly surrendering himself to idealistic hope, awaiting Shepard’s response.

Shepard lowered his gaze, turned his head slightly toward the door, and finally looked up through half-lidded eyes, ashamed and pleading and rueful all at once.  His words were barely there.

“I should go.”

 

* * *

 

News stories could never compare to the reality of watching the _Normandy’s_ destruction from the inside of an escape pod.  In fact, the comparison was sickening.  Reading rushed articles about some distant loss in the Terminus Systems, utterly detached from the reality of everything the _Normandy_ had accomplished in her brief time, was demeaning.  Hearing news anchors gloss over it as just one of many items in a string of questionably-newsworthy stories was worse.  The worst, though, were the stories about Shepard himself.  Flowery, sympathetic words about Commander Shepard being declared killed in action filtered in and out of the news for a few weeks until there was nothing further they could say, despite having said so little.

Kaidan considered himself lucky to have survived the Collector attack.  He was lucky to have returned to the Alliance.  He was lucky to have seen and done everything that he did as a member of Shepard’s crew.  He was lucky to have known Shepard as the man that he had been.  Except, no matter how many times he tried to convince himself otherwise, he was not entirely lucky: he would have never left the _Normandy_ if Shepard had not persuaded him.  In reality, there had been no luck involved.  And now he was alive, and Shepard was not.

Kaidan was lost without him.  The guilt was overwhelming, the sudden absence of Shepard’s confidence and wit and courage akin to losing a part of himself – like losing a limb, like he would never function properly again.  At those times when work failed to be sufficiently distracting, Kaidan receded into nightmarish daydreams.

Life marched on mercilessly without Shepard, as though all his words and actions had meant nothing to the galaxy at large.  He had saved the galaxy itself from an impending Reaper invasion, and, on the most personal level, he had also saved Kaidan from remaining on board the _Normandy_ for a lost cause.  The man was gone, having instead morphed into a legend of dubious truth.  Even if he was the only one to do so, Kaidan was determined to honor Shepard’s sacrifice by continuing to live.

And so he tried to move on.

He buried his guilt in the deepest recesses of his mind, hoping the utter silence would prevent him from ever again being dragged back into that moment of watching the _Normandy_ explode and knowing that Shepard had died along with her.  A few behaviors were the telltale signs of that moment enduring against his will – that he only looked other people in the eye when they issued orders, that he listened more intently when the orders themselves were short and dry – but he committed himself to his work and slowly learned to take pride in all he could accomplish under Alliance colors. 

Two years passed in that unconvincing silence.  A promotion and a good work ethic did little to make the memory seem as distant as he hoped they would, but new assignments brought new temporary distractions.  However, with new assignments came new rumors.

Some rumors suggested that Shepard was alive.  Crueler rumors suggested that Shepard was alive and working for Cerberus.  Yet, scuttlebutt said a lot of things, so Kaidan did not let the slightest hint of truth threaten the illusion.

When he was assigned to a mission on Horizon, an inconspicuous colony suddenly brought to light by rumors of an impending attack, he tried not to think of the attack that had claimed the _Normandy_.  He tried not to consider it odd that he had been deployed under the cover story of addressing improperly-calibrated GARDIAN laser turrets.  He tried not to take offense at the colonists’ seething – but understandable – suspicion of the Alliance.  He knew it was difficult to trust a stranger with even the best intentions.

But perhaps his perspective was skewed.  Kaidan had accepted Shepard’s death and picked up the pieces of his broken heart when there had been no one to blame for it.  He had moved on as best as he could.  But when he saw Shepard standing there, his pulse became erratic, broken in an entirely new way, never to fully mesh together again.

All the rumors had been true: the man was flesh and blood before him, a situation that was difficult to imagine but impossible to deny when it stared back from the abyss.  Kaidan ignored the pain in his chest and took Shepard into his arms, only their armor separating their hearts from each other, and reveled in the sensation of Shepard’s hands rising to his shoulder blades and holding on with the same strength.  But when he finally came to his senses and retreated, he was caught off guard by Shepard’s blunt statement of how long it had been and his inquiry about how Kaidan was doing.

Repressed frustration bubbled up from the pit of his stomach.  Two years had passed in silence, with Kaidan never imagining he would be caught unawares by the very ghost that loitered in the back of his mind for all that time, and all Shepard had to say for it were simple platitudes.  He opened up, spoke freely, and chided his former commander for failing to contact him or to even have the courtesy of letting him know that he was alive.

Clearly neither one of them was the same man that the other had known.

But now Kaidan wondered if what he had known for the past two years had been true or not.  Perhaps he had never moved on – perhaps he had never truly accepted Shepard’s death.  He would never know the reason for the belligerent persistence of that feeling, of the brief brush of Shepard’s lips against his own: maybe it was the result of hope that Shepard would survive the impossible, or possibly the result of doubt that Shepard would have ever let himself die in the silent vacuum of space. 

Silence was the antithesis of all things Shepard.  His words were his weapons just the same as his pistol and rifle, and Kaidan could not blame him for defending himself there on Horizon.

But Shepard had turned his back on everything, so Kaidan turned his back on him.  He began to walk away without another word.

But for all the suspicion and harsh words and anger Kaidan had thrown at him, Shepard asked that he join the mission, that they work together, that they build upon one another’s trust and expertise and strength again – just like old times.  And, for a single fleeting moment, Kaidan trusted him; but he could not trust Cerberus, nor could he know the full truth behind Shepard’s words, however much he wanted to believe in them, to believe that Shepard had never left him behind.

There were so many words he wished he had the sense or the courage to say, but he knew he would regret them if he made that attempt now.  Kaidan turned halfway, a hard glare in his eye matching the curtness of his voice.

“Be careful, Shepard.”

 

* * *

 

Waking to the electronic sound of his own heartbeat in a hospital room was likely one of the most unpleasant situations in which a soldier might find himself.  It meant that he had fallen in battle, that another soldier had carried him off the field to safety when he should have been fighting alongside his brothers in arms.  Kaidan regained consciousness when Shepard was lightyears away in some far-off system, continuing the fight for the galaxy without him.  Kaidan suddenly had too much time to think – about his life, about his career, and about Shepard.

He clearly recalled the events on Mars, at least up to the point where the Cerberus synthetic had given him the concussion that rendered him unfit for the fight.  He had continued to twist the knife in Shepard’s back, demanding straight answers to complicated questions, showcasing his mistrust when he should have been attempting to make amends.  He did not know what answers he had been expecting.  He did not know how to trust with blind faith.  But he knew with certainty that Shepard had saved him on Mars.

And when Shepard visited him, setting aside the war and the galaxy itself to be by his side for a few minutes, it brought him back to a time when he had hope for that flicker of light between them.  They discussed all the matters that they should have upon their reunion: work, family, life.  Kaidan even tossed out a suggestive comment, one he could easily retract with the claim that he was still in the process of healing – that his brain was still rattled – but Shepard smiled through it and placed his hands at the edge of the bed, recalling all those suggestions past that it was okay.  Everything was okay.

Kaidan had learned from his past mistakes.  When Shepard asked about Horizon, Kaidan took a long, contemplative moment of hesitation.  The simple answer was to bury it.  The complex answer was to unearth it.  Neither one seemed particularly appealing.  Instead, he made another impulsive confession: that he still cared, and that he had never stopped.  Shepard fell into silence again upon hearing it.  Perhaps Kaidan had not learned from his mistakes after all, and it was not okay.

It was not okay that he once again stood opposite Shepard some weeks later.  It was not okay that Shepard had to convince him to stand down and that he had fallen prey to political lies and treachery.  It was not okay that, for a moment, he believed Udina’s claim that Shepard was still working with Cerberus.  It was not okay that he shot the human councilor when even Shepard hesitated to do so.

It was not okay that he felt the need to confront Shepard at the docking bay.  In fact, it made his enduring guilt surface yet again: Shepard had so many more pressing issues than Kaidan’s petty concerns about his own integrity in a war that held no sympathy for the idealistic.  Fighting and surviving with one’s honor intact was a hopelessly romantic idea that had no place in reality.

And now everything bore down upon Shepard’s shoulders.  The looming threat of the Reapers had become a galaxy-wide invasion.  The Council had been paralyzed with indecision until he managed to force their hand.  Hackett had determined to rely on him to form alliances and gather support and materials for the Crucible.  His life was no longer his own to dictate, but he kept his frustration buried beneath that stoic façade, that of the hero the galaxy needed.  His person was a shadow against the wall of his responsibility. 

Kaidan saw through it.  For all the time that Shepard had invested in convincing Kaidan to open up and be direct while serving aboard the original _Normandy_ , it was Kaidan’s turn to convince Shepard to take the sanity check that the commander so desperately needed.

They had been through hell together.  They had stood shoulder to shoulder as brothers in arms.  They had stood opposite one another, guns drawn, threats piercing through the glares they levied at each another.  But here they were, seated at a small café on the Presidium, amicable words flowing between them as though nothing had changed.  It was oddly beautiful in its simplicity, even as it reeked of denial.

Kaidan leaned forward, placed his elbows atop the table and folded his arms, and gazed out over the Presidium, the artificial landscape rendered slightly livelier by the company at his side.  He had to smile, and Shepard’s amusement was evident in his tone when he asked why, not intrusively, but curiously.  Kaidan recollected thoughts of all the faraway places he had been and all the fantastical landscapes he had seen, every place awe-inspiring on its own merit – but still, they had never been quite enough to quell the subtle longing for home, for a place to belong and a hand to hold.

Earth was being devastated while he sat there, remembering the home it used to be.  Every idle thought seemed so trivial in comparison to the weight of humanity’s home world burning.  His gaze fell to the tabletop, his smile fading through a final slow exhale, and he only looked up again when he felt a calm, steady hand at his shoulder, all the comfort and security and hope he could ever need rolled into one simple gesture.  Shepard’s presence at his side was all the sanity check that he needed.

So he turned toward Shepard and watched the commander’s expression change in a million different ways as he stammered through his words, infusing every ounce of his soul into the long, steady stream of consciousness that spilled unchecked from his mouth.  It would have been much easier to simply say those three words that lurked in the back of his mind for so long, but he saw no reason to at the time.  It would have reduced everything to its simplest, plainest form, which, he thought, was a great injustice to all that he felt for the man sitting at his side.

He awaited Shepard’s response with his heart in his eyes.

Shepard was clearly taken aback.  He had some sneaking suspicion for all this time, ever since Kaidan’s initial awkward confession and the brief kiss they shared afterward, but hearing the explanation – however fumbling and awkward it had been in and of itself – was oddly reassuring.  All the anger on Horizon and all the frustration on Mars faded into the background at this singular moment in time, when he could look Kaidan in the eye and see nothing but truth.

Shepard’s hand fell from Kaidan’s shoulder to grip the major’s hand, and the cautious grin that had lingered on his lips grew into an expressive smile.  Kaidan clutched Shepard’s fingers in his own, basking in the steady pulse shared between them, returning the smile with the swell of hope that he had not felt in years.  He was home.

Hope had long sustained him without his conscious effort.  And after all this time—

When Shepard spoke, there was a new, tiny, hopeful light to the smile on his face.  His words were not a question, but rather a statement that filled all the space between them.

“You and me.”

 

* * *

 

Kaidan knew there was never enough time.  Human lives were short, meaningful in their brevity, but nonetheless plagued by that same constraint: a single lifetime was short, but two lifetimes so intricately intertwined were shorter, having never known the true meaning for their own existences until they thrived in one another’s presence.  A lifetime with Shepard would never be long enough.  Worse was the fact that he was well aware of reality’s unfortunate tendency to shatter what hope remained for the time that they did have left.

They reached the final hours of the war with no time to spare.

Disabling the geth dreadnought and reclaiming Rannoch for the quarians were victories eclipsed shortly thereafter by the loss of Thessia.  Horizon was a steady stream of nightmares, its refugee center of Sanctuary revealed as a laboratory for torture and cruel experiments for Cerberus’ gain.  All that remained was an assault on Cerberus’ base and the return to Earth – and Shepard paced the deck in his cabin, planning every move, anticipating every counterattack, securing every way out.

Kaidan arrived at his cabin with a gift of whiskey, promising a moment of respite with a quick drink.  The charade was charming in its own way, but he knew Kaidan was there to ensure that they could share at least one more brief moment away from the war, away from the responsibility, away from the reality of their humanity.  Shepard sat with him, sipping whiskey and just listening to him, enjoying the moment for what it was.

Kaidan spoke of everything all at once, but his words were lost in themselves, rambling on from one thought to the next, skirting the topic that underlay them all.  Still, he continued talking, if only to fill the time he had secured with Shepard in the intimate closeness of his cabin, perhaps the last time he would have the opportunity to do so.  But as his thoughts turned toward that idea – the finality of this moment – his words faded, and he sat there uncomfortably, downing the remainder of his whiskey to disguise the awkwardness of the silence that followed.

There was never enough time.  There never had been.  The lost time had taken everything with it – all the whispered concerns and comforting replies, all the gentle caresses of skin, all the tender kisses – and never looked back.

He seized the moment in defiance of that time.  He kissed Shepard with all the unspoken desire of his heart, and Shepard responded in earnest, briefly drawing a hand to the back of Kaidan’s head before again returning it to his thigh, gripping the fabric of his uniform as though it was his last link to reality, the necessary evil of time and consequence that reigned over his life by force.  But still he kissed Kaidan with the same heat on his cheeks, the same shudder in his heart, the same compassion on his lips as they moved in sync.

There was so much to say, and Kaidan had no idea where to start, how to proceed, or how to end it.  He wanted to tell Shepard everything.  He wanted Shepard to know that he was finally certain of what he could call that twinge in the pit of his stomach that he had first experienced three years ago.  But as he kissed Shepard and embraced time’s vise grip on his heart, his words gave way to his desire to hold him and pretend that there was no war to fight – that there was so much time left for them, together.

The pretense did not last long, and his mind flooded with scenarios of what would come of the war: devastation, or perhaps utter failure.  Time would dictate their fate soon enough.  The prospect of death lingered amidst every stroke of skin and every brush of his lips against Shepard’s, and he clenched his eyes shut as he bore it, denying with all his strength the reality that they would never know the full extent of what they had together.

His hands clambered for Shepard’s and held as tightly as they could manage, reveling in the familiar pulse against his fingers, never releasing their firm grasp even as they shook against his will.  He shuddered under Shepard’s grip, opening his mouth to finally release the distressed words that had wedged themselves in his throat.  They trembled on quivering lips between kisses, begging forgiveness for their own timidity and yet desperately crying out for adherence.

“Don’t leave me.”

 

* * *

 

Returning to Earth was nothing like Kaidan had imagined.  The small hope he had carried with him all this time had distorted his expectation to the point where Earth appeared to be an alien world when he finally saw it again.  Cities lay in ruin, bodies littered the streets, and the sky was perpetually overcast with clouds of soot and ash.  Watching the devastation pass beneath him from the vid screen in the back of the shuttle was like staring into the depths of hell.

And he fought through hell in the crumbling streets of London, shoulder to shoulder with Shepard and Garrus, soldiering on past the ruins of humanity’s last stand against the Reapers until that fated moment when they could finally take a second to stop and stare.  All that stood between them and victory was the swath of no man’s land before the beam.

So they ran, Shepard ahead of his team, until a single attack flipped a Thanix cannon-mounted tank.  Shepard called the _Normandy_ for evacuation, his arm around Kaidan’s the entire time, while Kaidan bled and shivered under his own armor, recognizing at that moment the fate that time had dictated for them.

Kaidan found himself ushered onto the _Normandy_ into Garrus’ care, the turian holding him upright as he threatened to collapse under his own weight, and he called for Shepard, crying out in all the anguish of his sunken heart when Shepard released his hand.  He gazed at Shepard, looking only to him in spite of all the devastation around them, seeing nothing but the man whose bright blue eyes returned the anguish ten times over, and nearly sobbed as he pleaded with Shepard to never leave him behind – not again.

For the final time, Shepard was rendered speechless by Kaidan’s heartfelt words.

He could not say it, not when he knew that those three words would endure only to haunt Kaidan after all of this, and all he managed was an apologetic catch in his throat, the agony evident on his face as he struggled to hold down his words – always the protector, always saving Kaidan.  But Kaidan did not need saving, not anymore, and he reached out for Shepard’s hand as the commander backed away from him, stuttering on his own breaths as his words died on the tip of his tongue.  And before Kaidan could say anything – everything he had ever wanted to say – Shepard was running, headed for the beam that loomed in the background of some nightmare.

That was the last time Kaidan saw him.  His last image of Shepard, a mental picture taken from the _Normandy’s_ shuttle bay, was of the man running towards the light, sprinting toward death for the salvation of all.  The image was so clear, so remarkable in its transcendence of time and space.  Even when the _Normandy_ evacuated Earth space and fled through the cosmos, outrunning some unknown energy field that destroyed nearly everything in its path, Kaidan thought of nothing else but Shepard running – of Shepard leaving him behind to save him.

The _Normandy_ survived.  Earth survived.  The galaxy survived.  But Shepard died to ensure that victory: victory through sacrifice, the motif of his journey over the past three years, constantly repeating itself in the words and actions of the few that stood tall and then fell to save the galaxy. 

But the victory left Kaidan hollow.  He stood before the memorial wall in silence, staring down at the nameplate in his hands, bearing the weight of all the eyes set on him as the room throbbed with reverence for the man who had saved them all.  The name stared back at him, subtle hints of light reflecting off the metal surface – _Shepard_ – and there was a trace of hope for the first time in days.  He stood taller, lowered his hands, and smiled before the memorial wall, refusing to commit the memory of Shepard to something so final when he could so clearly see even the faintest ray of hopeful light.

And as the galaxy began to rebuild, Kaidan held on to that hope with a firm grasp.  He held it as the cities of Earth removed all traces of the Reapers.  He held it as he returned to work for the Alliance.  And he held it as he dedicated his effort and his life to rebuilding the home for which Shepard had sacrificed everything. 

Time was much less hopeful, and much crueler.  It pressed on, leaving behind those who could not keep pace, granting no word of Shepard’s second return to life.  Days passed with silence, mankind still in the midst of shock and fumbling attempts to reorganize and restructure; weeks passed with hushed whispers, the Alliance sending Kaidan on odd assignments that never quite meshed with his job title; months passed with barked orders, life finally beginning to normalize as Earth again became the home worth fighting for that it had always been.  Hope dwindled as time marched on without news of Shepard’s body ever being recovered.

Kaidan returned to his solitary apartment after a long deployment.  He opened the door to greet the silence with the flicker of tired eyes and the twitch of sore muscles, and headed for the desk in his bedroom.  He had stashed the nameplate there for safekeeping – at least, he thought he had.  It had been buried away like a painful memory.  When he drew the plaque from the clutter of the drawer, the cold metal stung his flesh as the name inscribed there returned the longing gaze leveled at it.

 _Shepard_.  The man who had taunted Saren and Sovereign and Harbinger.  The man who had shouted down a centuries-long war between the quarians and geth.  The man who had narrated his own mechanistic actions while building model ships.  The man whose heart had shone through his eyes as he whispered his gratitude to Kaidan.  That man was now forever silent.

Kaidan only regained awareness of himself when he noticed the watery drop now resting on the nameplate in his hands, refracted light scattering a dozen different ways from the tiniest scratches of the metal surface.  He sat there in his uniform, clutching the plaque tightly in both hands, lamenting all the time lost to the war and all the words left unsaid.  He whispered his words into the darkness, a pitiful laugh catching at the end of it when he finally knew the harsh reality: it was so incredibly easy to say those three words when Shepard could not hear them.

“I love you.”


End file.
